


Would That Be Enough

by Itachi_S_Lucius



Series: Hamilton Oneshots [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - War, F/M, Female Senju Hashirama, M/M, Modern Era, Mpreg, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 11:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12253968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itachi_S_Lucius/pseuds/Itachi_S_Lucius
Summary: This is part of a running series in different settings set to Hamilton songs, that is why there are so many alternate universe tags.Mpreg is normal.





	Would That Be Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amber_And_Agate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber_And_Agate/gifts), [Dragon_Shaman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_Shaman/gifts), [PidgeLettaConChetta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PidgeLettaConChetta/gifts).



> Praise Lin!
> 
> This is set in a War period in Modern times. Also mpreg is normal

Staring out the window he knew that he was lucky. Still he could not fathom to feel such an emotion. It was plain and grey outside, horrid hues of black, white and dull. A sparkle of violet would peak out from the shadows of his obscure vision bestowing upon him, some sense of hope. There was only a slim possibility with his desperate plea to the General would pass through and he could be graced again. Still he remained with his head high, pride through his eyes as his consciousness battled him, and reality raced. Maybe experience had only granted him a bright lit tilt to the world, where he was selfish, and did not notice his own plagued mind.

There was a small humming bird fluttering gracefully around the feeder, seeking food. It had been replenished recently, he hadn’t wanted to refill it, going outside had become some sort of pained adventure. The store was too fair a walk for his swelling feet, and the cold months only slowed his movements further. Already the were aching from standing too long and cleaning the dishes, so few now.

He sat in the rocking chair just off place from the warm fire, and readjusted his knitting, a small blanket, the colours having been chosen at random. His abdomen provided as a perfect resting place for this work. In this, at least he only listened to the cracking of the fire and the task at hand. Unhindered by his piling debts to the bank and the unrest he was causing his friends. Breathing deeply at a small cramp he placed his knitting beside him, and reached for the cooling cup of warm milk at his side, rocking ever so slowly to ease the child. Humming the soothing tune he had written only for them. Although it meant in nothing other then happiness there was an undertone of melancholy, bitterly imposing on his tone. Tears slowly glistening in his eyes as the picture on the mantle seemed to stare over at him with gloss, false eyes.

“We don’t need a legacy, we don’t need money…” Whispering he spoke in the silence, keeping his eyes on the framed photo, looking at the false glossy eyes, wishing they would change before him and become real. The sun peered out from the clouds and the glass over the picture only reflected his own face at himself. Mockery of the light itself, he paid no attention.

He had written.

There had been no reply-.

-Hence the past months had been strained. Comforted only by simplicity that his life was ingrained, and the child growing within himself. Something of his husband remaining with him. Though he trained his mind in other directions, this was not some final resort he found himself saying. Truly all he was waiting for was a citation paper, a pink slip deciding what remnants of his life would linger. The gold band on his finger resting so heavy would weigh more than a ton, and his baby would strain in his skin, would it know priour, that its Father was dead? No, he didn’t want that. What a gruesome thing for an infant to know. Let alone _their’s._

He rose from his seat, swaying slightly at the sudden motion he had caused, putting another log to the fire. The warmth seeping in through his baige jumper. The piece on the mantle glinted in his eye, he swam to meet it, not in desperation of a longing man, but in the patience of a wise one. It was of his husband and his best friend. Both men so devout to each other, they fought in war side-by-side without a second thought. He had been so proud then, he remembered the moment before, a fogged longing of when Madara had stood at the doorway, and kissed him so many a time he could not possibly have counted all the separate times. Then again, it had been so fast and frequent maybe they hadn’t been separated at all. What fools had they been, he had been, proud that the one he loved was going to his death, when a child blossomed in his belly unknown to him. Would Madara had stayed if it had been sooner?

Yes, he knew that answer so well. Of course he would have, oh, but his thoughts were cruel weren’t they?

Leave Hashirama to fight in war alone? It would tear at Madara, and he would never forgive such a grievance on his closest friend would he? It was plain and obvious, but the man he loved could love so greatly that he would sacrifice for a man he did not physically devout himself to.

This picture was held on their mantle for a reason. Just before Madara and Hashirama had been drafted, they had their uniforms on, braking conduct, and had smiled at the camera. Entwined together in a careful and familiar hold. Despite their close bond, he had never managed to feel even a jealous or possessive hint, ego perhaps, but he knew the truth. So instead, seeing them together only ever made him smile. Even now, when the grey swarmed his vision in such a way that colour was foreign.

There was a scraping at the front door, but he had not the will to open it and look. Something was holding his neck and providing a painful pressure, tears falling down his face at the chokehold of his own emotions. Hormones of pregnancy, nothing more.

Still the scaping continued, a grating sound like someone was scratching through concrete. Maybe someone was, their door was painted white with a slab of concrete acting as a makeshift porch, slumped off to the right because of the recline on the hill which they lived.

It would be best if he looked at least. Nodding, he cleared his tears with a tissue from his pocket, old and worn, the picture delicately placed back onto the wooden mantle with only a slight sound. He waddled over to the door, peeking through the hole at the front to see whom or what was there.

His heart constricted painfully at the military uniform he saw, green, so army, Madara was in the army unit. Deeply he conflicted, but he knew he was prepared for this moment, he his mind was set in the stance in which he had set it, painfully dull, with detachment. He refused to break down in front of a soldier, not from embarrassment, but honour. The man’s head was downturned and he was scraping the concrete with his heavy boot, it explained the noise.

The click of the door was an almost painful occurence, and he held himself so rigged and straight that the eight month belly he had would hit the man. He knew his hands shook.

The soldier snapped to attention, and Naruto stared at the face of the man he was sure would bring about his unravelling. Instead, he was faced with his salvation, dark crimson eyes, thin lips, and underlined, uptilted eyes. Madara. He froze his breath not leaving him, painfully stuck in his esophagus. Needles peircing at his lungs.

His hair was shorter, fair shorter, that would be why he hadn’t recognized him. It was shaved, no buzz cut closely to his head at the sides, but the tips of dark black hair peeked through his hat.

Finally he remembered oxegen, quick enough that when his husband and captured him through his mouth he could relish it. His arms folded around the sun warm neck and pulled it as close as he possibly could. But Madara stopped, and looked down.

“Y-your…” His fingers graced over the large bump, warm and so gentle they were scarcely felt through the thick fabric. Naruto stared a moment longer at the distracted, but real, oh so real, eyes of his husband before placing his cold hand on his over the baby.

“Pregnant.” He confirmed, for it was obvious.

“How fair along?”

“Eight months or so.” He hadn’t remembered the conception date, the last couple months Madara had been packing had been filled with random nights of passion, and pinpointing one instance was horribly difficult.

“You should have told me…” They had moved to embrace now, the war torn man was clinging almost disparate, and Naruto could feel a shaking beginning in his husband’s body.

“I contacted the General a month ago.” Admittance was hard, he could have simply written a letter explaining the situation, but he hadn’t wanted Madara distracted. “I begged him to send you home.”

“You should have told me.” Yes, he should have, but it remained in truth, too dangerous a gamble.

“I’m not sorry… I knew you’d fight until the war was done.” He let go then, a let Madara a moment, the man breathed hard, and his face pinched together, but nonetheless he grabbed his bag and shuffled inside. He heard the mutter.

“The war’s not done.” Guilt had already arisen, and had it not been something expected, perhaps it would have hurt.

“Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now.” The elation at the simple prominence of his husband’s well being was not something so simple it could be placed in words. Though the Uchiha could not seem to be in agreement, for his shoulders tensed, and when he turned his voice spoke with cracking emotion.

“Will you relish being a poor man’s wife? Unable to provide for your life?” Startled he averted his eyes, there was something hidden within those questions, but… His eyes landed on the knitted blanket he had been working on, making particular note of the white and red that he had chosen for its colouring, completely at whim. It hardened his mind, his tears which had formed dried, and he looked back with confidence.

“I relish being your wife.” Madara didn’t answer this, but he didn’t appear convinced or placated, only confliction as he clenched and unclenched a strong, burnt fist. Naruto sighed, and saw the mantle, the two pictures resting there, his hopes when there had been near nothing keeping him from drowning in the grey. Madara and Hashirama’s friendship, unbreakable and strong, dependable, and loyal, as Madara himself was. Their wedding picture, with the gloss eyes that before had seemed so dim, but now looked as if they held real depth. Their wedding picture hiding all the disasters it had brought, bathed in a simple frame of normality. This was them. Madara knew this, but he was having trouble seeing.

“Look at where you are, look at where you started… The fact that you're alive is a miracle just stay alive. That would be enough…” He balanced himself. Stating thoughts he didn’t know he held. “And if this child shares a fraction of your smile. Or a fragment of your mind, look out world! That would be enough! I don’t pretend to know, the challenges you’re facing, the worlds you keep erasing and creating in your mind…” Taking the larger hand in his own he crept into the larger man’s warmth, and faced him. “I’m not afraid, I know who I married. So long as you come home at the end of the day, that would be enough…”

They kissed.

Again, and again, once more, twice more. Their passion didn’t dwindle, but it held in place, simply joy and not lust, they needed nothing but eachother in that moment, heating the fire underneath their skin, their own longing, to hold the other over the long months. It pressed firm as their bodies did, grasping to each other as reunion bore sweetly between the three of them. Kept looked inside their hearts unhindered by lock and key, they’re love for the one before them only grew. Pressed as one.


End file.
